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A week, later, Friday, October 31st, at around 7:30 in the evening, and Tres had a lot on her mind. A little less than a week ago, her roommate and best friend had knelt before her on her bed begging for an orgasm which Tres had eventually supplied. That evening had been, at once terrifying, blissful, confusing, and something like forty seven other adjectives condensed into around an hour of the best sex she, an avowedly straight woman, had ever had in her life. A week later, and the word, or words, that came most readily to mind as she thought back on that night were “impossibly fucking inconvenient.” She didn’t have the time to worry about her sexual orientation just now. She had a fucking dissertation to finish. And she certainly didn’t have time to wear an outfit which made her look like the Whore of fucking Babylon to a fucking Halloween party to which she hadn’t been fucking invited in the fucking first place. All of which begged the following question: what the fuck was she doing in a borrowed car heading to the aforementioned fucking party wearing the aforementioned fucking outfit?
Tres wished she did drugs. At least then she’d have some rational explanation for her behavior.
She had come out of that bedroom naked except for a bathrobe—and how had that happened, by the way? She had no memory of removing dress, gloves, stockings or mask.—totally bewildered by what had just happened, but resolved that nothing like it was ever going to happen again. And it wasn’t the sex either. The sex had been fine; great even, if she were honest with herself. Even though she hadn’t come. No, it was the loss of control which had accompanied the donning of the mask: the rush of moisture to her pussy, the lascivious and predatory thoughts invading her psyche. She wanted sex, sure, but she wanted it on her terms, not as the result of some alcohol-induced bacchanalia.
And Nina didn’t fucking help matters either. Of course casual and anonymous sex as a Halloween treat had been her idea to begin with, so it was probably inevitable that her roommate would wind up agreeing with the little voice in the back of Tres’ head: the one which said: “You likened sex on your terms to bad pizza. Your little stint as a Succubus got you so worked up you almost came spontaneously. Why fight the obvious conclusion?”
So she was going to the party. Nina and the voice had had their wicked way with her, but she had managed to impose a couple of conditions. She was wearing the short, low-cut, red possible-cocktail dress with red, French-cut lace panties. The only other option underwear-wise was nothing at all, and she didn’t have that kind of confidence. She was wearing the red lace opera gloves, the garter belt and the stockings, as well as a pair of strappy red heels, but not the mask. The strange, beautiful devil girl’s domino sat on the passenger’s seat regarding her impassively. She was also wearing a long khaki trench coat and a fedora sat on her lap; in essence a second costume. If she didn’t feel up to the satanic slut look, she could always go with the more conventional film noir femme fatale.
Tres found the exit from Interstate 91 and followed directions to a private house a mile or so from the Wesleyan campus. The building and its grounds were impressive: a red brick Georgian mansion on several acres, beginning with landscaped gardens close to the house and fading into uncultivated woodland in a middle distance made obscure by the gathering evening fog. Tres parked her borrowed car, and sat for a moment arranging her thoughts. She had come to the first minor crisis of the evening: which costume? Her hair was down and carefully styled. The film noir hat would screw that up. Once on, that fedora really couldn’t come off. On the other hand, the trench coat tempted her. It was stylish without being particularly revealing. Whereas the dress…her eyes caught movement in the headlights of an arriving car, and she slumped down in her seat. Well shit on rye toast! So much for choices.
Dr. Weidner, her thesis advisor, waddled towards the party dressed in an aviator’s leather jacket, scarf, cap and goggles. He looked like a 1917 Luftwaffe version of Mr. Potato Head. Tres had no desire to encounter the man. He was eminent in his field; possessed of a brilliant historical mind. He was also a hard-drinking, cantankerous and probably gout-ridden 68, although he looked closer to 80. Outside of his field, he had the conversational skills of a traffic cone, and at all times the hygienic habits and appearance of a flatulent and overweight pug. If she were to stay at this party, she would have to wear the costume in which she was least likely to be recognized. She sat thinking of nothing much for a few minutes. She considered leaving. She reconsidered. Well fuck the world in general and Weidner in particular. She’d come this far, she was going inside, for a while at least. She reached for the lovely red mask, brought it to her face, and reached around the back of her head to tie the canlı bahis şirketaleri ribbons.
Again there was that warm feeling where the leather touched her skin; again the slight but pleasant pressure on her forehead just beneath the two short horns. Tres felt as if she’d just slipped into a hot bath. Her entire body relaxed as moisture began to gather between her legs. Her nipples tightened as her imagination began to conjure up dark and carnal images. She could almost feel her everyday persona dissolve like sugar in hot water. All the tensions, insecurities, small lacks and petty needs melted away and she was a Succubus again: confident, seductive, predatory. In the glow of the car’s overhead light, she looked at her reflection in the rear view mirror, then she reached for her lipstick. She twisted the tube and watch the red, glossy stick emerge from its sheathe. As she brought the make up to her lips she imagined a man—it didn’t matter who; some random victim: the young Vietnamese student who had sold her a cup of tea earlier that evening perhaps. She imagined him on his back on a bed watching her as she brought his hard cock to her lips and painted them with the precum she had coaxed from him. She thought of holding his eyes with hers as she ran her tongue slowly and lasciviously over her lips before taking his swollen cockhead between them and running them slowly down his shaft. In her mind she heard him moan and whimper… Without warning, a small orgasm exploded through her, and her body jerked slightly with the pleasure of it. The lipstick, which she had finished applying perhaps half a second before, flew from her hands and landed on the dashboard. Mechanically, she recovered it, closed the tube and put it aside before looking back into the mirror. No smear. No mess. Her lips looked red and full, wet and inviting. Without removing her trench coat, she got out of the car, and headed for the lights surrounding the house’s front door.
She found a bell recessed to the right of a pair of massive white double doors, pressed it, and listened to the distant and sonorous chimes. Almost immediately the door on the right swung open, and a middle-aged man dressed in the livery—tailcoat and black trousers, stripped vest and white bow tie—of a Victorian butler stood before her.
“Good evening, Miss. May I see your invitation?” Tres found herself bemused by the casual gravitas of the man’s behavior in conjunction with the slightly nasal Bronx-y sound of his voice. She handed over the card Nina had given her. The butler, if butler he was, nodded, and ushered her inside. “My name is Mr. Franconi, Miss. May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, Mr. Franconi.” replied Tres formally. She found herself in a grand two story entryway with public rooms to her left and right, and a marble staircase curving up to a balustraded balcony above, off of which she imagined bedrooms and perhaps dens or studies. She felt the butler’s hands at her shoulders, and she slipped out of the trench coat, feeling the cool air of the entryway play across the exposed flesh of her legs, back and chest. She turned and found Mr. Franconi examining her with an amused if slightly rueful smile. “I take it you approve, Mr. Franconi?” she asked archly.
“Have a nice evening, Miss.” he said, and turned away to hang up her jacket.
Tres looked to her right. Three steps led down into a large brightly lit living room, beyond which was a paneled dining room containing a bar and buffet table. Perhaps twenty people, all in costume, sat and chatted, drank and flirted. The costumes ranged from the standard: a chubby, red-faced cowboy, a nervous-looking young priest, a tall, awkward princess, to the inventive: a slot machine tottering around on a pair of long, shapely fishnet-clad legs, and topped by a pretty face with a bob of bright purple hair, to the risqué: a vampire with a mesh shirt exposing a muscular chest, Wonder Woman in red, white, blue and gold one-piece with three-inch stilettos on her long red boots, a cheerleader in a tight varsity sweater and a short flared skirt. Guests ranged in age. A small woman dressed as Harry Potter looked like a young grad student, while a couple in khaki shirts and pith helmets were well past sixty. Most were in their thirties and forties: grad students and young professors, intelligent, pleasant, charming people, no doubt. Tres had been one of them herself. She had enjoyed parties very like this one: good food, pleasant music—coming from a live acoustic band in what looked like a small ballroom to her left—intelligent conversation. Tonight, however, she saw the whole thing differently. To Tres the grad student, these were her peers; to her succubus self, they were prey.
Perhaps it was Nina’s original injunction to come to a costume party for anonymous sex. Perhaps it was the erotic impulses which suffused mind and body whenever she tied on her devilish domino, but as her gaze wandered between the costumed figures, she imagined guest after guest in her sexual canlı kaçak iddaa thrall. She had entered the room now, making her way across it towards the bar in the dining room, and she felt eyes upon her, appraising, admiring. She nodded and smiled at a compact man dressed as Robin Hood, picturing him tied spread eagled to a bed tearing open his white peasant shirt as she impaled herself upon his swollen cock. A bottle blonde dressed in a black leather jacket and poodle skirt caught herself staring and turned quickly away. Tres imagined the woman on her knees servicing her sodden pussy. Her mind conjured an image of herself with her hands gripped in that dyed blonde hair as she ground her naked cunt against her squealing victim’s pretty face. Even the elderly couple in jungle gear wasn’t exempt from her voracious imagination. A short fantasy danced behind her eyes. In it, she danced seductively before the man, hypnotizing him with the promise of her body as her eyes sapped any will he had to resist. She then ordered him to bind his wife’s hands and feet, so that the woman could watch appalled as her husband stripped himself naked and mounted his demonic mistress from behind, fucking her like the mindless animal he had become. As scenario after scenario played out in her mind, the corners of her mouth turned up in a lascivious half smile. She had almost reached the three steps leading into the dining room, when she noticed for the second time a young man dressed as a priest.
He was probably her age: close to 30, but he looked fully ten years younger. Perhaps it was his pale, freckled face under close cropped red hair which made him look such an innocent, or perhaps it was his thinness. He was well over six feet tall, loose of limb, and gangly. His long arms stuck out from the black sleeves of the cassock like sticks, and although the costume was designed as a full length robe, Tres could see not only the black wingtips which covered his feet, but the socks over his ankles as well. He was not a handsome man, but the Succubus wasn’t looking for lovers. She was looking for victims. And the thought of seducing a priest appealed to the devil in her. Besides, while the tall man’s thoughts may or may not have been on his bible, his eyes were certainly glued to the voluptuous curves of her tits. She slid her gloved hands up the bodice of her dress as if to adjust the fit. With a little pressure on the outside of each breast, she deepened her already considerable cleavage, watching with satisfaction as the priest’s eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly. Then, still cupping her boobs, she gave the man a little half-finger wave. His eyes immediately shot up to meet hers. She pursed her lips in a reproachful moue, frowned, and wagged her index finger at him in a “naughty naughty” gesture. His face flushed, and she shot him a wicked smile. The she turned her back on him and headed into the dining room, giving her hips an extra little swing as she walked away.
At the bar, she asked for a vodka rocks. The bartender was a stocky woman with short iron grey hair framing a young unlined face. She was dressed as a circus ringmaster: red cutaway coat and top hat over a black minidress, fishnet stockings and long black boots.
“Devil woman!” she said, handing Tres her drink. “That is a hot costume. And a gorgeous mask.”
“Thanks,” Tres replied. “You look pretty good yourself.”
“Nahh,” the bartender waved a dismissive hand, “I need to drop another ten pounds to really make this work, but hey, fuck it! It’s Halloween, right?
“Right you are, Sister,” said Tres, raising her glass to the other woman in a toast and taking a sip. “Mmm, that’s nice. Hey, do you know the layout of this place at all? Is there anywhere to go if a girl wants a little privacy?”
“Bout a hundred and thirty bedrooms upstairs. What’d you have in mind?”
“Can you keep a secret?” asked Tres, leaning towards the bartender. The woman nodded.
“Well,” the Succubus smiled, “I’m thinking of fucking a priest.”
“It’s a nice night for it.” said the bartender.
Tres couldn’t see the young man when she returned to the living room, but she did see an open door at the far end of the room close to where he had been standing. She made her way across to it, enjoying the various expressions of admiration, desire, and envy on the faces she passed. Slipping through the door, she found herself in a game room complete with covered pool tale. At the far end of this, open French windows led onto a balcony with a delicate white wooden railing. She passed out into the foggy night, thinking how strange it was that she didn’t feel the cold, half-naked as she was. A few yards to her right she saw him, hands on the railing, staring out towards the belt of woodland, black against the dark blue of the moonlit sky. Tres lost herself in her role play. As her Succubus self claimed her mind and body, she could feel the pounding in her heart and the warm wetness of her cunt. The thrill of the canlı kaçak bahis hunt excited her as much as the prospect of taking her prey. The young man had not yet noticed her. She approached him quietly. She was almost upon him when he became aware of her. With a slight start, he straightened, pulling his hands from the railing and taking a step or two backwards towards the wall of the house. She stopped in front of him, and slightly to his left, leaned her back against the railing—which thrust her chest forward—cocked her head to the right, and enjoyed his discomfiture. His eyes fell quickly to her cleavage then snapped up again to meet hers.
“Nice costume,” she purred, “so tell me, Father, are you meditating on sin?”
“Oh, uh, thanks,” the young man stammered. His voice was pitched low, and he spoke quietly. “Uh, my Uncle lent it to me. He’s a priest. Episcopalian. I’m not. Not a priest, I mean. It’s just a costume. Although I’m at the Div School down at Yale. Um, sorry. My name’s Brent.” He held out his hand.
She took it and held it, brushing her fingers against the top of his wrist. “Brent,” she said, trying the name on her tongue, “Father Brent. Brent of the Div School. Are you studying for the priesthood?”
“Oh no. I’m getting a Ph. D. in Comparative Religion. Um, so you’re a devil girl, or something?”
“I’m a succubus, Father.” She was still holding his right hand in hers, and now, as she came off the railing, she brought her left hand up to take his wrist. As she spoke she drew his hand up towards her face, caressing it with both of hers. “You know: an evil demon who uses her feminine wiles to seduce men into trading their souls for sexual ecstasy?”
“You don’t look all that evil to me,” he replied. And a shudder went through his body, as she scraped a long red-painted fingernail lightly over his palm.
“Oh but I am, Father. Evil, cruel, merciless, and irresistible. So, how about it, handsome? Want to trade? One kiss: your soul is mine, and I’m all yours.”
“Oh wow, oh God,” babbled Father Brent, “shouldn’t I be saying something like, I don’t know, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’ or something?”
“Oh come on, Father!” breathed the Succubus, “You’re already mine. You’ve been staring at my boobs all night. It’s taking everything you have not to stare at them now. Here,” she dropped his hand, took a step back, and cupped her breasts, offering them to him, “look at them. They’re nice, aren’t they?” Her voice came soft and languid with sexual promise. “So big and soft. So firm. So juicy. And my nipples so hard and sweet. Would you like to touch them? Wouldn’t you love to suck on them? One kiss, and they’re all yours, along with the rest of me. I promise you I’m worth it.” She grasped both his wrists and held them by his sides as she leaned into him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her mouth an inch away from his. “Kiss me,” she whispered, “seal our bargain and let me devour you at my leisure.”
“Yeah, ok, but what’s your name?” panted her newest conquest. For an instant, Tres came out of the delicious game she had begun. Then, even as she was raising her hands to his face to draw his mouth to hers, just before taking his mouth with her lips and tongue, it came to her.
“Selina.” moaned the Succubus, and she brought her lips hard against his, forcing her victim’s mouth open and plundering it with her thrusting tongue.
Brent’s mouth held the sweet aftertaste of red wine and chocolate, both of which had been on offer at the buffet table. He was a tentative, inexperienced kisser, and his gently probing tongue could not resist her assault. When she had satisfied her craving for his mouth and lips, she broke off and began kissing across his face and up his long neck until she reached his ear. As she explored this with the tip of her tongue, she rasped “You taste good, Father. Now let’s go find someplace private, so you can renounce your vows of chastity.”
She broke away from him then and walked towards the game room door, leaving him gasping and disoriented. At the door, she turned back to him and beckoned to him with a crooked finger and a provocative pout. “Aren’t you coming, Father Brent?” she cooed, “Don’t you want to fuck me?” Then she disappeared inside.
Her young captive loped after her, his ungainly stride made more awkward by his painfully erect cock. As he passed from the comparative light of the moonlit balcony into the darkness of the game room, he felt her hands reach out of the darkness, grab him by the front of his cassock, and slam him up against an interior wall. The she was on him again, grinding her crotch against his leg, reaching under his cassock, and squeezing his long, thin erection through his slacks.
“Mmm,” she purred, “is this all for me? This nice hard cock of yours? What shall I do with it, huh? What do you want me to do, Father? Suck it? Fuck it? Put it in my ass? Tell me what you want, Father?”
“Oh, God, oh fuck…” groaned her captive.
“Your God can’t help you now, Priest,” hissed the Succubus, kissing and biting at his throat, “your soul belongs to me. But ‘fuck’ I understand. ‘Fuck’ is good. Shall we fuck? Do you want to fuck my hot devil’s cunt with your long hard cock? Is that what you want?”
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